


Le Langage des Fleurs (The Language of Flowers)

by mebfeath



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: AU, Because this is why this fandom exists, F/M, Flowers, I put major character death because people do not live forever, and there are always HAPPY ENDINGS, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 13:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mebfeath/pseuds/mebfeath
Summary: He knows he shouldn’t. He knows there is a chance she’ll figure it out, that she’ll decode his secret messages. A small part of himself that he despises hopes she does.Another part of him is terrified to imagine the consequences if she does.The largest part of him, however, is willing to risk it. He doesn’t think she’ll read anything more into it other than his affection and his reminders that he’s always there with her, and always will be. She’s smart, his Queen, but intelligence is nothing without knowledge in this case, and he’s fairly sure she will not learnthisin her studies.He also can’t help himself.





	Le Langage des Fleurs (The Language of Flowers)

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I should have said that this was inspired by a small part of a story I wrote a few weeks' back. I've put that little paragraph in the endnotes for those who are interested!
> 
> You may wish to consult the list of flowers and their meanings at the end of the story to fully appreciate all the references, but it's not entirely necessary. Floriography took off in the Victorian Era, courtesy of books like _Le Langage des Fleurs_ (The Language of Flowers) by Charlotte de Latour in 1819 and, later, John Ingram's _Flora Symbolica_ along with _Flower Lore_ by a Miss Carruthers of Inverness. I've tried to pick the most common meaning in that era, but the meanings would shift and change regularly with fashion and new discoveries, and so it's difficult to find any kind of consistency. Nevertheless, Queen Victoria clearly started a fashion.
> 
> I like to think it's all Lord Melbourne's fault.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows there is a chance she’ll figure it out, that she’ll decode his secret messages. A small part of himself that he despises hopes she does.

Another part of him is terrified to imagine the consequences _if_ she does.

The largest part of him, however, is willing to risk it. He doesn’t think she’ll read anything more into it other than his affection and his reminders that he’s always there with her, and always will be.

She’s smart, his Queen, but intelligence is nothing without knowledge in this case, and he’s fairly sure she will not learn _this_ in her studies.

He also can’t help himself.

 

***

 

He first sent her the orchids as an apology in advance; a precursor to his arrival as Leicester.

She had reawakened his heart, his ability to love. Passion. Purpose. Meaning. And in helping her find her courage, he’d found the courage himself to reopen his greenhouses and return to something he loved, to banish old memories and enjoy this new happiness. To forgive himself just a little more. How could he ask so much of her and nothing of himself in return?

But when he’d first started cultivating the new buds, he’d never envisaged that his beautiful, precious orchids would be used to soften her heart towards him. To apologise for hurting her.

But turn her away he had, as he should have – as was required by duty. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, that he hadn’t cursed himself and his own foolishness for hours, days, weeks afterwards.

It didn’t matter to her that he’d had no choice; he had hurt her, and badly. She deserved after to know why, to know that she _was_ loved. Revered. But that she could never be his.

Of course, he’d choose the most precious, the most exotic and by far most difficult flower to grow in his garden for her.

He hadn’t noticed them straight away; they’d been hidden by her wig and the general splendour of her gown, but his breath had caught a little in his chest when he’d spotted them pinned to her breast. It had thrown him; his eyes flicked around the room as he regained his composure.

_She was wearing his flowers._

Perhaps she didn’t hate him, resent him for rejecting her. She could be petulant when she wanted.

But perhaps she _was_ being petulant, he considered for a moment. She may have figured out that there was more to his refusal of her than he’d said. Her pride was wounded, but her love for him hadn’t been.

But it was dangerous; hopefully whispers of where the orchids pinned to the Queen’s dress had come from would not reach unwelcome ears. He wondered briefly if Leopold had managed to win any of the servants to his side just yet. _Not likely._

He’d forced himself to refocus, catching her gaze for a moment before deliberately looking down at the flowers.

‘They’re very beautiful,’ she says knowingly, taking the bait, and he drags his gaze up to her face.

‘Then they are worthy of you, ma’am,’ he replies, and she looks away, agitated.

She’d understood a little, then, he thinks, after he’d explained himself, and he thinks the flowers may just have done their job.

Little does he know that Emma is keeping a list.

 

***

 

So when the Archduke returns to Russia, and she is sad to lose her playmate – one person who understands the pressures of her position – he sends her a small bunch of daffodils. Despite their meaning, he knows she will enjoy their simplicity, and will hopefully make her smile.

He doesn’t admit to himself that he is happy to see the back of the Archduke. Jealousy is not a noble quality.

 

***

 

The day she decides to commute the Newport Chartists’ sentences, he sends her orchids again.

He worries; the Chartists have support, and the next thing on their list is far closer to home. But she is sure, and he cannot fault her desire to show mercy. She shows kindness where others would perhaps show fear, or anger, or even a desire for revenge. He’s proud of her compassion.

She will not have many opportunities to show it in such a public way, either. He doesn’t try hard to convince her otherwise; it’s possible that clemency might just be enough to take some of the fire out of the movement. Anything to protect her, he thinks.

But he’s proud of her for so many reasons, and so he dispatches a boy with a small, brown box.

 

***

 

The night she sends Sir John away, she finds flowers on her dresser.

Skerret tells her that the messenger from Brocket Hall had requested that they be delivered straight to the Queen, and that she had taken _the liberty of putting them on your dresser, as the box is from the Prime Minister, ma’am_. Victoria frowns; this is a little more pomp and circumstance than the last time she’d received orchids from him – assuming they _were_ orchids – or even flowers – again. What else would he send her at this time of night? She thanks Skerret, wondering briefly if she knows something Victoria doesn’t, but her face had been open and earnest and Victoria dismisses the thought.

Once she’s undressed for bed, she opens the box.

Inside are two light red carnations, tied with a small white ribbon. She picks them up, lifting them to her nose; their fragrance is soft and very light. She smiles; they’re beautiful in a simple, childish kind of way. Not exotic at all like the orchids, she thinks. But something in them speaks fondness and tenderness and she bites her lip, desperate to stop the tears from falling.

When Lehzen asks the next morning, she lies and tells her she’d picked them herself. She’s not quite sure why.

 

***

 

Her Uncle announces at dinner that the Coburg brothers are due to arrive in two days, and Victoria coldly tells him that he has overstepped the boundaries of family relations in sending for them against her express wishes, and her grace will not extend so far next time he should do such a thing. Melbourne closes his eyes and looks at the floor, working hard not to let out a sigh.  

She was happy, and now things are changing.

He can sympathise.

She’s afraid, he realises later. Desperately afraid. He’d thought it before, but he hadn’t really dwelt on the idea, being so wrapped up in his emotions and hers. But now things were different, and she was fearful of what was coming.

He would have to work hard to keep things smooth and calm. He just hopes Albert is everything his Uncle says he is – and a lot more.

 

*** 

 

The next morning, Emma meets her in the hallway and hands her a box. ‘From Brocket Hall, ma’am,’ she says, a small smile on her face, and Victoria is pleasantly surprised. She knows the boxes, and wonders happily what flower it would be this time.

‘Would you like to open it here, ma’am? That way you can take whatever it is to your rooms should you wish,’ Emma says, and Victoria doesn’t miss the knowing look on her face.

‘Excellent idea,’ she replies, and they move a little way down the hall to a small table.

Inside the box are the strangest flowers she’s ever seen.

There are two separate bunches; one has two tall, thin stems with hundreds of tiny white and pale pink flowers lining them close together, almost like a brush. The other has two stems of flat, round pink flowers.

Victoria gently runs her fingers across the petals of the taller stem.

‘What unusual flowers, ma’am,’ Emma breathes, ‘but beautiful.’ Victoria agrees. The tiny flowers tickle her hand as she runs her palm down the taller stem.

‘Do you know what they are, Lady Emma?’

Emma frowns. ‘I think this is eremurus,’ she says tentatively, ‘but I’m not entirely sure. I don’t know what the other buds are.’

‘I shall have to ask Lord M,’ Victoria mumbles, and realises she doesn’t want to. She likes this silent sort of one-way communication they have and doesn’t want to spoil it with words.

‘You do have a library, ma’am,’ Emma says. ‘Perhaps we could look them up?’ Victoria’s face crinkles into a smile. ‘It could take some time, ma’am. I wouldn’t even know where to start,’ Emma admits. Victoria’s smile doesn’t falter.

‘I have all morning.’

 

***

 

The day the Princes arrive, he doesn’t send her flowers. He spends too much time with a whiskey decanter and glass that night to do anything.

 

***

 

It doesn’t take him – or anyone – long to see that without some serious intervention, any hope of a marriage between Albert and Victoria is doomed. The small part of him that hopes she figures out his flowers also cheers every time they cross words, but the bigger part of him, he hates to admit, is beginning to acknowledge that Albert is a good match for Victoria, despite their differences.

So he forces himself to team up with Ernest, who is clearly his brother’s greatest and most unsubtle champion, and it takes everything he has to actively work at it.

‘How are you enjoying England, your highness?’ he asks the young Prince one evening after dinner.

‘Very well, thank you, Lord Melbourne,’ Ernest cheerfully replies. ‘The weather is perhaps a little cold for summer, but the beautiful women more than make up for that.’

Melbourne smiles awkwardly. ‘I believe you and Prince Albert have seen much of the city.’

‘Oh yes! It has been wonderful. Albert particularly enjoyed your National Gallery.’

‘Oh, did he?’

Ernest frowns slightly. ‘Oh, yes. Albert loves art and history, and you have that in abundance here.’

‘Excellent,’ Melbourne replies. ‘I only ask because he didn’t seem to mention having enjoyed anything in particular,’ he adds as nonchalantly as he can.

‘Albert is not as…expressive, as perhaps you or I. He finds new places and new people…he takes some time to warm to new experiences,’ Ernest says eventually, and it’s the most wrong-footed he’s heard the young prince since he arrived.

‘Ah. I can appreciate that it takes time to relax in a new place,’ he says, and Ernest agrees.

Melbourne lets silence reign for a few moments. ‘I hope he settles in soon. The Queen so enjoys his smile,’ he finishes with, and looks straight ahead, praying Ernest is as intelligent as he is womanising. He does not want to spell this out any more than he has to.

He is fortunate that evening; it doesn’t take Ernest long to pull Albert into a corner.

But, in true Albert fashion, he says and does the right things and everyone holds their breath. Victoria smiles at him – and then he ruins it by opening his mouth again, and she’s crushed and Melbourne cannot bear it.

He feels like he’s offering her up for slaughter.

He sends her orchids the next morning.

 

***

 

She tells him that he’s expected for dinner and dancing, and he’s surprised.

The lure of her wearing his flowers while he dances with her again is too much to resist. He recognises the petty jealousy for what it is, but he cannot help himself. Not now, when the Queen is so clearly attracted to Albert, and Albert to her.

 _I held her heart first_ , he wants to scream, but he cannot, so he sends her gardenias instead, not bothering with a box. His flowers have become so commonplace, he thinks – she wears them constantly – that there is little point in hiding anymore. No one else seems to have noticed where the flowers are coming from; he assumes that everyone is not questioning the thought that they come from the palace gardens. He is fully aware that the second that Leopold got a whiff of what he was doing, he’d be sidling up for a chat, and since that hasn’t happened yet, he has to assume that the palace is still on his side. Or, at least, on England’s. Leopold has not been particularly good at winning friends.

The small part of his heart cheers when he sees her wearing them at her breast again.

The night, from there, is easily one of the worst of his life, and he feels like a fool as he stumbles from the room.

He thinks he will not send her flowers for a while.

 

***

 

They’re standing on the balcony at the end of the hallway. He’d come outside to get some air before they start with the dispatches – that’s what he’s telling himself and anyone who asks, anyway. He is _not_ hiding from the future that is taking tea with the woman who holds his heart.

She finds him out there not long after. She stops next to him, looking out over the gardens. ‘Did you enjoy dinner last night?’ she asks, not looking at him, and he has to hold in a twisted laugh.

‘Yes, it was a lovely evening.’

‘I’m sorry I did not get to dance with you,’ she says, and he can hear it in her voice. ‘I could not see you after I had danced with Albert.’

‘I apologise, ma’am. I felt a little unwell and retired early. I did not want to interrupt your evening,’ he says, and it’s only half a lie, he tells himself. He really did feel unwell. _Sick at heart_ , his mind helpfully supplies, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Did you enjoy your evening?’ he asks quickly. ‘You seemed to enjoy dancing with the Princes,’ he says, and he almost winces at his failure to keep all traces of resentment out of his voice.

‘Oh, yes,’ she says a little breathlessly, and he still doesn’t look at her. There’s a silence that’s too long and he’s about to fill it with some comment about the weather when she speaks.

‘In hindsight, I realise that I do not like that he took your flowers,’ she whispers. ‘That I gave them away.’ Her voice almost breaks at that last part, and he looks down at his hands, which are gripping the rail. He will not allow her to see him affected by this. He will not ruin this for her, he realises, as painful as every moment is.

She deserves her chance at love.

‘They were not my flowers, ma’am-’ he starts, when he’s sure his voice will not tremble so obviously.

‘Yes, they were,’ she interjects before he can finish his sentence, and her voice is so full of emotion that he cannot help but look at her, tears be damned.

He sees his own tears reflected in her eyes and his heart breaks all over again. He’s not going to pretend, not now. She’s seen him anyway – the way her eyes widen and soften and beg all at the same time tells him she knows at least in part what he’s feeling.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers, and he shakes his head.

‘They were your flowers to do with as you wished,’ he says. ‘I do not hold any claim on them.’

‘I wish you would,’ she replies and he realises what he’s done. They cannot have this conversation again.

‘You know I cannot, ma’am.’ His voice is soft, and she drops his gaze. He turns back to look out at the gardens. ‘I have brought the latest dispatches from Kabul,’ he says in a clearer voice.

‘Oh,’ she says, and the surprise in her voice turns his head. ‘But we’re going to Windsor,’ she says haltingly.

And she’s thrown him. ‘Windsor? On a Wednesday?’

‘Yes. You know how fond I am of…trees.’

‘Trees?’ He’s so confused, and she doesn’t look like she really knows what she’s saying either.

‘Yes. We will expect you for dinner,’ she says, and her voice is stronger.

Dinner. At Windsor.

That means staying the night at Windsor. With her, and the Princes.

 ‘Oh, that will be difficult, ma’am. I-I must go to the house, and you will have much to distract you. I’m sure Prince Albert would love to see the Windsor collection,’ he says and he’s rambling.

There is no way in hell he’s going to Windsor, no matter what she says.

‘If we were dining here, you would come, wouldn’t you? I don’t see why Windsor should be any different,’ she says not meeting his eye and he knows she sees _all_ the difference in the way she walks off without giving him a chance to say another word.

He cannot send her flowers from Windsor, he thinks.

 

***

 

He shouldn’t be here.

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. He _knows_ he shouldn’t be here.

But he does not have the luxury of telling the Queen what to do, no matter what Leopold says – a luxury he himself thinks Leopold takes advantage of far too much and far too cavalierly.

Victoria will not do as Leopold tells her. In fact, if he’s not careful, she’ll do the exact opposite just to spite him.

It’s his job to mediate, he knows. To be in her corner when she needs it, but to push her along to where she needs to be as much as she’ll let him.

But _he_ _shouldn’t be here_ , and he finds it so frustrating.

She will not let him back out slowly.

He cannot blame her, though. She doesn’t know the full extent of his feeling, not really. He’d been deliberately vague in his explanation that night. She doesn’t know how hard it is for him to watch her and Albert. To have all her suitors paraded before him like some kind cruel torture.

‘I see the Queen is not wearing flowers tonight,’ Emma says at his arm. ‘How unusual.’

Melbourne glances at her but refuses to take the bait. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes, she wears them every day. Her dresser stores them in the iced room down in the kitchens so they will last,’ Emma replies, her voice light.

‘How thoughtful.’

He looks at her when she doesn’t say anything, and she raises an eyebrow at him. He lets out a sigh.

‘I should not be here,’ he says quietly, and it’s the closest he’s come to confiding in someone in years.

‘And yet you are here,’ she says meaningfully, and he looks at her.

‘The Queen wouldn’t take no for answer,’ he grumbles by way of explanation.

‘I know.’

Melbourne looks at her sharply.

‘The Queen knows what she wants, William,’ she says quietly, before moving away.

 

***

 

She’s wearing one of the orchid stems in her hair the next day – Skerret really was wonderful to have brought them – when she meets Ernest in the hall.

‘Ah, good morning, my fair my cousin,’ he greets grandly, and she can’t help but smile widely.

‘Good morning, Ernest,’ she replies, and he bows. ‘Have you breakfasted already?’

‘Not I, your majesty,’ he says, his face dropping a little, and she understands.

Albert has already breakfasted, and is, presumably, outside enjoying the trees he so loves. She cannot blame him, really; it was why they were here. But his absence still irked her.

Ernest interrupted her thoughts, offering his arm to her. ‘Shall we breakfast together?’

‘That would be delightful,’ she responds, taking his arm and smiling again.

They pause momentarily to admire a painting of her father – the conversation very firmly about her father, not art – when he sees the flowers in her hair.

‘What exotic flowers, cousin,’ he says, and she smiles a little. ‘I did not know your gardens here in Windsor grew such beautiful specimens!’

‘Oh, no, I’m not sure if they grow flowers such as these. The greenhouses are quite small,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘These are from Brocket Hall.’

Ernest’s eyebrows rise momentarily. ‘Brocket Hall?’

‘Lord Melbourne’s estate. Lady Emma says he has the most spectacular greenhouses,’ she says proudly, and Ernest’s face shifts so subtly that she thinks she wouldn’t have noticed it if she wasn’t looking directly at him.

‘Ah, I see,’ he says, and there’s an extra layer to his voice she can’t quite figure out. ‘Lord Melbourne is very talented in a great many areas. I see why you value his counsel so,’ he says, and she smiles.

‘Yes. He’s an excellent Prime Minister and most loyal friend,’ and he nods firmly.

‘Oh, that is clear,’ Ernest says as they turn into the breakfast room.

 

***

 

He could kill Albert. He could wring his scrawny neck.

But he doesn’t. That’s not his place. Based on the Queen’s reaction, he won’t need to either – Leopold will do it for him.

He’d felt the niggling seed of worry settle in the back of his mind when Alfred had returned, but he told himself he was being silly. This had to happen; they had to have some time alone outside of the fishbowl. But he had to tamp down hard on full-blown panic when Albert had returned without her.

She’s been to Windsor only a handful of times – not enough to know her way through the acres of forest.

He takes Alfred and they’re blessedly only a short way into their search before they come across her, and he feels the anger swell in his heart for his Queen.

Her hair is undone, and he can tell she’s been crying. Little Dash is on her lap, and she’s holding him with one arm and the reins of her horse in the other. Her shoulders are as slumped as they could be in her dress, and her head low – he thinks she is the picture of dejection.

This is cruel, he thinks, this game they play. She may be royalty – a Queen – but she is still a woman.

He feels the rage inside of him swell once more; there is very little he can do to protect her from it, and he hates that. He hates that she is required to stand at a mark for them to shoot at her if they please.

She sees them coming from a little way off, and he can tell even from that far away that she’s initially surprised to see him. But then her expression moves to such relief his heart breaks just a little more.

He reaches her quickly, forcing his horse into a canter, and she looks at him forlornly. He takes Dash from her and passes him to Alfred with instructions to have him seen to before returning to help the Queen. She doesn’t say anything – just watches, the tears spilling down her face – and that scares him more than anything. To see her so lifeless, so miserable.

He could kill Albert. And Leopold.

Ernest, he might spare.

She assures him that she’s unharmed, just a little cold, and they ride back together slowly towards the castle.

He struggles not to stare at the long brown hair that’s flowing freely down her back. He hadn’t realised just how long it was. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful, even now, all dishevelled and dirty and just perfect.

‘He told me I surround myself with sycophants,’ she says after a little while. Melbourne’s eyebrows rise. At least he knew with relative surety what Albert thought of him now. ‘He said you think for me.’

‘Do you believe that?’ he asks, glancing over at her.

‘I don’t know what to think anymore,’ she mumbles, and lets out an angry sigh. ‘I think you offer me perspectives I wouldn’t ordinarily see,’ she says before he can speak. ‘I think you always answer my questions kindly, even when they are ridiculous. I think you respect me, even though I am young. And I think you understand the pressures of my position.’

He says nothing. Anything he says here will damn Albert and while he’d more than happily see him hang by his wrists in the tower, he’s not going to come between them.

‘He told me I should marry you,’ she says so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her. His heart sinks and he closes his eyes for a moment. Albert couldn’t possibly have known how so very cruel his words were, but he’d hit the mark all the same.

‘I wanted to tell him I had tried. I wanted to scream at him that he was very much my second choice.’

And oh, how her words stab at his heart. He will never forgive himself if she rejects Albert because of him. He knows she’s looking at him but he cannot bring himself meet her eyes.

‘You mustn’t compare Albert and I,’ he says, his voice low and gravelly; he can’t hide how he feels here. ‘He is young, as you are. He has not had the time I have had – the experiences that dull the sharp edges of personality.’

‘It does not take time and experience to be kind!’ she cries.

‘It can, ma’am,’ he counters. ‘If one has not had such a kind childhood, one must learn to be kind later.’

She says nothing to that, and he knows he’s struck a chord. He’s just not quite sure which one.

‘His mother died when he was very young,’ she says, and he sees. ‘That’s why I gave him your flowers at the ball; he said the scent reminded him of his mother.’

Melbourne purses his lips and nods. He understands now. She loves deeply, his Queen. Feels deeply. Albert is her cousin, her family. She is close to him in age, is most likely to understand. She wants to love Albert; she’s trying to make everyone happy. Albert is just not making it easy.

They walk on for a little while until they come to an intersection. He can see the castle in the distance; they are no more than fifteen minutes’ slow ride away. He glances around; the sea of purple-blue catches his eye, and he can’t help himself. _Perfect_ , he thinks.

‘Excuse me for a moment, ma’am,’ he says, handing her the reins, before throwing himself off his horse and walking quickly over to the field.

He carefully picks just one small stem – one will be enough – and walks quickly back to her and the horses. She watches him, frowning slightly in confusion. He quickly mounts his horse, taking back the reins and handing her the bluebell. The small smile that graces her face at the sight of the flower makes his heart sing. He can’t protect her from everything, and nor should he, he knows – but he can at least make her smile on the other side.

She takes the flower and studies it, twirling it gently in her fingers. She lifts it to her nose, inhaling the scent he knows is barely there. He watches her, captivated by her small but wondrous smile, until she turns to look at him, her eyes soft, and for that brief moment his heart is lighter than it’s been in weeks.

He eventually turns away, and pushes his horse onward.

‘I will not forgive him for abandoning me in the forest,’ she says after a while.

 _I don’t blame you,_ he thinks. ‘I would perhaps wait to see what the Prince has to say for himself, ma’am,’ he advises instead, and he’s done. He’s not sticking up for this boy again.

‘I do not intend to speak to him again,’ she declares, her voice strong.

‘You will probably have to speak to him at some point, ma’am,’ Melbourne replies.

‘Why?’ she demands, and his lips twist sardonically.

‘Well, it would be impolite to refuse to say goodbye.’

Her smile will make it all worth it, he thinks.

 

***

 

He finds he can send her flowers from Windsor.

When she wakes the next morning, tired and worn out from everything, she’s not completely surprised to find a small, brown box on her dresser.

She fingers the delicate petals. It’s another flower she’s never seen before; the small yellow and purple stripes on some of the soft, white petals remind her of the pictures of tigers and other exotic animals she’s seen in books and she smiles in wonderment at her Lord M.

 

***

 

‘I do not think this particular visit will be as fruitful as my Uncle hopes,’ Ernest says to him quietly as they watch the Queen play cards with Emma and Albert play the piano, and he frowns slightly.

‘There is still time,’ he says heavily, and Ernest looks at him with his eyebrows raised.

‘We leave tomorrow morning,’ he says doubtfully.

‘Which leaves this evening,’ Melbourne replies, and Ernest tilts his head in acceptance.

‘I think you most optimistic.’

‘My experience tells me that the Queen will surprise us,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.’

He can feel Ernest’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t look back, instead preferring to watch the Queen.

‘I must thank you for your assistance,’ Ernest says, and Melbourne nods. ‘Albert is…this is not easy for him.’ Melbourne says nothing; he doesn’t know quite what to say. He’s not going to lie; Albert is a child in a man’s clothing at times and he wants to slap him silly when he criticises the Queen.

A small part of him knows Albert – inadvertently or not – does it because Melbourne is there; he knows what Albert thinks of him. But Albert is young, like the Queen. He deserves some patience, although Melbourne is more than willing to admit that his patience – and Leopold’s, he suspects – is rapidly running out.

When he doesn’t reply, Ernest speaks.

‘The flowers the Queen wears are quite beautiful,’ Ernest says, and Melbourne’s heart stops in his chest. He blinks rapidly.

‘Yes, quite,’ he manages to get out.

‘It seems the fashion for women to wear flowers in their hair,’ Ernest says thoughtfully. ‘There seems rarely a day when a blossom of some kind is not gracing the Queen’s hair.’

Melbourne knows Ernest is not like his brother; the art of seduction is something Ernest has perfected. Ernst has figured it out.

He _knows_.

‘Really?’ he replies, his voice unusually high as he stares at the little aster flowers that are currently interspersed in the curls at the base of her neck. The flowers that arrived only last night, directly from Brocket Hall.

‘Oh yes,’ Ernest says. ‘The gardeners here at the Palace are to be commended on their fine work.’

He knows what Ernest is searching for, but he will not give it to him.

‘They are some of the best in the country,’ he agrees, and there is a pause before Ernest speaks again, and his voice would be almost comical if Melbourne’s heart wasn’t currently sinking down below his feet.

‘But I hear your own glasshouses grow some of the most exotic flowers, Lord Melbourne.’

And there it is.

‘It is a pastime I have not had much time to devote to of late,’ he says as neutrally as possible.

‘Oh, then any flowers from Brocket Hall are to be treasured,’ Ernest replies and Melbourne curses himself. He takes a breath in and forces his mind to clear. He will not be outwitted by some German princeling, no matter how much they are in alliance.

‘I’m not so sure anything produced at Brocket Hall is to be _treasured_ , your highness.’

‘I do not think the Queen would agree.’

‘The Queen is, as I’m sure you would agree, entitled to hold her opinions.’

‘Yes,’ Ernest says slowly. ‘The Queen treasures her flowers.’

‘I believe flowers are valuable to most young women, and it is unsurprising that the Queen is no exception,’ he remarks noncommittally.

‘Especially when they are sent by someone,’ Ernest replies and Melbourne is suddenly very tired of this conversation.

‘The Queen receives a great many gifts from a great many people,’ he says, and he doesn’t try to hide the irritation in his voice.

‘But it is only your flowers she wears in her hair,’ Ernest says quietly, and Melbourne doesn’t even try to argue.

‘The Queen is free to wear whatever she wishes,’ he says quietly. ‘I suggest we focus on ensuring she’s wearing a wedding dress before the year is out.’ He turns to look at Ernest, his face grave. Ernest’s eyes are narrowed and he studies him for a long moment before nodding.

‘Yes, I think that is wise.’

He lies in bed that night cursing himself and his foolish heart and weak mind.

She would have told him without thinking when he asked; of course she would. What reason could she have to hide such information? All she knows is that her devoted Prime Minister – and friend – sends her flowers from his estate, as any devoted servant of the Queen might.

She has no idea of the meaning behind his flowers.

But Ernest, his heart tells him, knows exactly what he’s doing. And he also suspects that Ernest knows the Queen is ignorant of their meaning, and that is perhaps what saves him.

He just hopes Ernest believes him.

 

***

 

It comes as no surprise to Melbourne when Victoria tells him that Leopold has requested – demanded – that the princes be allowed to stay another month. His excuse is that their ship was damaged in a storm in Dover, but he knows better.

‘It doesn’t matter how long they stay,’ she says, her chin high. ‘I refuse to marry Albert.’

‘Have you informed your Uncle of this?’ he asks, his voice light, and she glances at him.

‘Yes, but I do not think he believes me,’ she replies, and he nods in acceptance.

‘Well, I suppose he’ll figure it out when there’s no proposal,’ he replies.

A _month_. His head is spinning, but he forces himself to focus.

‘Have you spoken to him about Windsor?’ he asks gently, and when her face hardens even more, his heart sinks.

‘He said that he thought I knew my way out of the woods,’ she replies derisively, but he can still hear the hurt in her voice. ‘He requested an audience that night.’

Melbourne’s eyebrows rise, and her face cracks a little into a small but wry smile.

‘I wanted to hear him apologise to me,’ she explains, and he bites his cheek in an effort not to laugh. He forces his face into a thoughtful frown and nods.

‘He did. And then told me I should spend more time in the forests at Windsor so that I know the way around my own lands,’ she spits, and he has to work not to let out groan.

A month to convince her to marry Albert, and oh, it’s going to be an uphill battle.

He doesn’t send her flowers that night.

 

***

 

He’s mildly surprised when he receives the invitation. Another ball, but this time for Leopold’s birthday.

His mind immediately turns to the greenhouses before he stops. He shouldn’t, not tonight. His conversation with Ernest was fresh in his mind, despite it being over a week earlier.

But it was a ball, and…

Perhaps one last time.

He arrives slightly late; the visit to Windsor meant his paperwork had had to wait, and that meant that he’d spent many hours catching up. His eyes find her within moments, and he relaxes a little. She’s dancing with Ernest, which means she must have already danced with Albert.

The orchids are pinned across the back of her hair so that they are mingling with her curls, and it makes heart race to see them so tightly woven into her hair. When she sees him her face lights up, and he gives her a small smile.

He sees Leopold across the room; he supposes he will have to speak to the Belgian King at some point to wish him a happy birthday.

He’s surprised then – and apprehensive – when he sees the King moving around the room towards him.

‘Your highness. Many happy returns,’ he supplies when Leopold drifts close enough.

‘Thank you, Lord Melbourne,’ Leopold replies, but says nothing. Melbourne glances at him; he doesn’t look particularly happy for a man whose nephew is happily dancing with the Queen. Perhaps the wrong nephew, but still. He has to remind himself that Leopold doesn’t see a beautiful, spirited young woman; he sees a target.

‘I trust you are enjoying the ball,’ Melbourne asks a few moments later, when the King says nothing.

‘I am,’ he replies. ‘It was most kind of Victoria to throw a ball in my honour.’

‘It was.’

Leopold turns to face him for a moment before turning back to the ballroom. ‘I had hoped for a different birthday present,’ he says, and Melbourne’s eyebrows rise momentarily.

‘And what would that have been?’ he asks, stalling for time.

‘An announcement,’ Leopold supplies drily. ‘It would have made for a wonderful gift.’

‘I’m sure,’ Melbourne replies.

‘My patience grows thin, Lord Melbourne,’ Leopold says, and Melbourne purses his lips. ‘Albert’s patience.’ Melbourne takes in a breath before slowly releasing it.

‘I’m not sure how I can help you, sir.’

‘The Queen needs fewer opportunities to hide behind her position,’ Leopold explains. ‘I’m sure you could handle much of the work that keeps her sequestered in her office…and away from Albert.’

Melbourne feels the coldness of offence sting him, but he squashes it.

‘I do not presume to do the Queen’s job for her,’ he replies evenly.

‘I do not assume that you do, Lord Melbourne. But perhaps there are matters that may not require as much attention as the Queen devotes to them,’ and Melbourne knows exactly what he’s saying.

He’d be right, too. She has been using him as an excuse ever since Albert arrived, and more so lately, since Windsor. He hadn’t really tried to convince her not to; he’d mentioned it in passing to her more than once, but she’d simply raised her eyebrows and looked innocent. She really did want to know all the intricacies of the raids in Kabul; if she was sending her subjects into danger, she felt it was important to understand what she was asking them to do. He’d just raised an eyebrow but she hadn’t budged, and he’d given in.

But it galls him that Leopold thinks he can tell him – tell the Queen – how to do her job. He pauses for a moment, letting his mind sift through it all.

‘Perhaps if the Prince showed some interest in some matter of state, I could suggest to the Queen that she spend more time in the Prince’s company,’ he eventually settles on. ‘To explain the intricacies of English government,’ he adds, and Leopold nods.

‘Albert is very keen to learn more about the history of the English monarchy,’ he supplies. ‘I am told the Queen knows much about her heritage.’

 _From me_ , Melbourne’s mind helpfully supplies, and he squishes the thought. This isn’t about him. This is about her. About the future of the monarchy.

‘Yes, the Queen has an extensive knowledge and interest,’ he replies. ‘Especially in Queen Elizabeth,’ he adds, unable to resist.

‘Excellent,’ Leopold replies, his voice flat. ‘I suppose this also means you will not be required to spend as much time at the Palace,’ Leopold adds, and Melbourne grows cold.

‘I serve at the pleasure of the Queen,’ he replies coolly, and Leopold gives him a look.

‘Perhaps the Queen’s pleasure should not be quite so well served,’ Leopold retorts and Melbourne grinds his teeth together.

 _How dare he_ , he thinks. She is the Queen and he is well within his right and duty to be at her disposal when she requires. And Leopold is absolutely right.

He’s known it for a while, but ignored it, justified it to himself over and over again. _She needs him_.

Perhaps she doesn’t anymore.

Perhaps it’s him that needs her.

He looks out to where she’s still dancing with Ernest, her face flushed from the dance and a laugh escaping her lips. She was exquisite.

And it was time he compelled her to relinquish her grip on him.

The pain of it settles heavily on his chest, and he needs air.

‘Excuse me, your highness,’ he manages to get out before he stumbles again from another ballroom, leaving his heart and his flowers behind yet again.

 

***

 

He’s odd today, she notes. Quiet. He won’t meet her eyes if he doesn’t have to.

She’s confused.

‘Did you enjoy the ball last night, Lord M? You left early again.’

‘My apologies, ma’am. I arrived late and had to leave early. Unfortunately, there is a lot of work to be done at the moment, with the new bills,’ he explains, not looking at her.

‘I had been hoping to dance with you,’ she says, smiling, and her smile drops as he shifts uneasily; when he doesn’t return her smile with one of his small ones, the kind that she loved, that spoke of friendship and shared intimacy.

‘I am sorry to have deprived you, ma’am.’

She isn’t satisfied with his response, but she doesn’t press. He _did_ look tired.

She signs the last document in her pile and hands it to him, and he puts it in the box and closes the lid. ‘Is that all?’ she asks in surprise before glancing at the clock on the table. It had only been thirty minutes.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replies, his face neutral.

‘Excellent,’ she replies. ‘Will you ride out with me?’

He looks at the floor and her heart drops. ‘Not today, ma’am, I’m sorry. I must get back to the house,’ he explains.

‘Oh,’ is all she can say, and he picks up the dispatch box. ‘You will join us for dinner,’ she rushes out, and she can see him let out a small breath.

‘Not tonight, ma’am. I anticipate the debates will run quite late into the evening. I’m sorry.’

She’s confused – and hurt. He knows how much she needs him at these dinners, especially now that her uncle and cousins are staying longer. He’s so good at conversation where things are so awkward and she feels so…small.

‘If you’ll excuse me, ma’am,’ he says, before turning and walking out the door.

 

***

 

His heart cries out to send her orchids again, but he squashes it.

His time is over.

 

***

 

When he arrives on Thursday, almost five days later, she is short with him, and he deserves it. It was a mistake to pull away so quickly, he thinks. He should have eased her into it, removed himself more gradually. He should have started removing himself weeks ago.

He should never have allowed things to get to the point where pulling away felt like tearing himself in two.

They get through the box quickly again, and when he closes the lid, he realises he doesn’t want to leave.

‘Do you have any further engagements today, ma’am?’ he asks, and she sighs.

‘Albert has requested that I accompany him on a tour of Westminster Abbey,’ she says, but she’s not looking at him, and it hurts a little. ‘He is interested in the building and its history.’

Leopold will be pleased, he thinks.

‘That should be very informative, ma’am,’ he replies, trying to sound as positive as he can, as he picks up the box.

‘Very,’ she agrees, and the sadness in his voice makes him stop.

‘Perhaps, ma’am, Albert will smile more if he feels like he can relax,’ he says quietly. Her eyes finally flick up to his, and she looks angry, but tired. So, so tired. He looks down.

There is nothing more he can do for her. Only she can do this. He has interfered enough.

‘I shall leave you to your afternoon, ma’am.’

 

***

 

He cannot avoid her completely, so when she sends for him only a few days later, he goes gladly. Warily, but gladly.

‘Lord M,’ she says as he kisses her hand. ‘Will you ride out with me?’

He looks confused. ‘If you wish, ma’am,’ he says tentatively. ‘But where are the Princes?’

Her face hardens. ‘I recommended to Albert and Ernest that they visit St Paul’s Cathedral; the Archbishop was more than happy to oblige them with a tour. They are there now.’

He’s surprised, given Leopold’s desire to force Albert and Victoria to spend as much time together as possible. It must show on his face, because she continues.

‘I advised them I would be busy all day on matters of state,’ she declares, and he can hear the challenge in her voice. She’s smart; she’s figured out why he’s not around so much. That, or Leopold has aimed one too many barbs in his direction, and he curses the King for making this that much harder.

‘I see,’ he says, not looking at her. ‘Then I am at your disposal, ma’am.’

It’s not long before they’re walking their horses slowly down towards the gardens, but the silence isn’t the easy, amicable silence of before. It’s awkward and charged and it’s the kind of silence he wants to fill with words but can’t find any. So he broaches his least favourite topic, knowing it will provoke some kind of response.

‘Was your visit to Westminster successful?’ he asks, and Victoria’s head flicks around to stare at him. He wonders what it was exactly about that sentence that was wrong.

‘Prince Albert thinks I do not know enough about my heritage,’ she says angrily and Melbourne shakes his head and lets out a sigh. ‘How can he think that?’ she continues. ‘I’m…I…ugh!’ she finishes with, and he wholeheartedly agrees. But it’s not his job to agree with her at the moment.

‘I’m sure he said more than that, ma’am,’ he says, and she glares at him momentarily before her gaze softens, and he knows he’s hit his mark.

‘Yes, he did. It was quite a nice afternoon,’ she says a little wistfully, and his mind latches on to the word _afternoon_. ‘Until that.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, ma’am,’ he says, giving her a wry smile, and her returning smile makes his heart soar just a little higher.

‘I’m just not sure we’re suited,’ she admits, looking at him for too long.

‘Only you can decide that, ma’am,’ he replies, meeting her gaze. _I cannot tell you what to do here_.

Later, when they’ve handed their horses back to her equerry, she invites him to dinner.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he begins to say and she lets out a huff of annoyance.

‘Yes, you are too busy,’ she says, and he says nothing. She turns to face him, seemingly to say something, but nothing comes out. She just stares at him with those wide eyes, her face slowly crumbling. He can feel his face soften, his eyes burning.

‘I apologise, ma’am,’ he says quietly, and he’s not sure if he’s apologising for letting her down or for everything he’s ever done to hurt her. She swallows and turns away before turning back to face him.

‘It is the anniversary of my coronation next week,’ she says, and he knows where this is going. ‘Will you come then?’

He doesn’t have the heart to refuse her.

 

***

 

Her dresser remains empty.

‘No flowers tonight, ma’am?’ Skerret asks and she feels the tears well up in her eyes.

‘No,’ she whispers.

He wouldn’t be there to appreciate them anyway.

 

***

 

The night of the celebration, after the Queen enters the ballroom, Ernest’s eyes find his.

The Queen is not wearing flowers in her hair.

Despite everything, it’s fitting, he tells himself, that he doesn’t send flowers that night, even though it is a celebration of her. She hadn’t worn them at her coronation, or at the coronation ball.

He stands in a corner, watching as she dances with Lord Alfred, and Ernest. He’s impressed when she manages to charm even the Duke of Wellington into dancing with her at least once.

But he can see what she’s doing; she can’t hide it from him. Albert stands in a corner, tall and quiet, and steadfastly _not_ dancing.

‘You two make quite the pair,’ Emma says as she moves to stand next to him, and he rolls his eyes. ‘The clockwork prince and the brooding Prime Minister,’ she prods again and he sighs. ‘The Queen was quite unsure of what to wear tonight,’ Emma says, and he turns to stare at her, frowning deeply. He did _not_ want to hear about the Queen’s dress choices. ‘She waited to see if there would be a floral accompaniment, but she was disappointed.’

He looks away. ‘I assume things are not going well?’ he asks.

‘You would know if were around to see for yourself. Or to ask,’ Emma replies, and he lets out a huff.

He’s not going to tell her that he already knows how well it’s going; he doesn’t need to ask. He just needs to see her face in an unguarded moment – it tells him all he needs to know. ‘No,’ she admits after a moment. ‘Not at all. Both the Queen and the Prince seem quite uncomfortable around each other now.’

Melbourne clenches and unclenches his jaw.

‘She misses you, William,’ Emma says softly, like he doesn’t know how hard this must be for her. How hard it is for him.

‘She cannot rely on me so much,’ he replies. ‘Might I remind you of what you told me? That she will have to marry one day?’

‘And you hoped her husband would appreciate her.’

‘I still do.’

He can hear Emma sigh next to him. ‘You are someone she trusts, William. She still needs you.’

And before he can answer he sees movement out of the corner of his eye and he turns to see Victoria approaching them. He’s surprised and annoyed at himself; is he really so wrapped up in himself that he is so distracted from watching her by a conversation?

‘Your majesty,’ he says, bowing slightly, Emma curtseying next to him.

‘Lord M,’ she responds. ‘I am glad you were able to come. You have been so busy of late,’ she says, her face vulnerable but her voice clear.

‘Parliament has been debating new bills, ma’am. It has become quite time-consuming,’ he explains, and her face tells him she’s humouring him. Because that’s what they do, now.

Emma speaks next to him. ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ before curtseying and leaving them to their little conversation.

‘I see you were able to convince the Duke of Wellington to dance, ma’am,’ he says a little more quietly this time, his voice all forced lightness. ‘That is no mean feat.’

She smiles, and it’s genuine. ‘I told him at a dinner some months ago that I expected that he would request to dance with the Queen. He told me that young Queens should not be tied down by old politicians,’ she says, her voice trailing off as she realises what she’s saying. ‘Oh,’ she breathes, and he can see her start to fall apart. When she looks up at him she’s devastated and he has to rescue her, no matter how much the Duke’s statement is swimming in his mind and will haunt him for days. He swallows before holding his arms out.

‘It would appear that even the Duke himself does not believe his own statements, ma’am. May I have the pleasure?’ he asks, and he’s leading her out into the middle of the room before either of them know what they’re doing.

He dances with her and it’s nothing like the night of her coronation ball. She’s had quite a bit of practice with various partners now, and that, combined with the lack of champagne, shows; she’s light and swift on her feet and it’s like floating. He’s kidding himself, he knows; they’ve always danced beautifully together, even from the start. She fits him, and he her. Her eyes never leave his, and oh, how he’s missed this. He’s missed her.

He’s suddenly aware of himself and he looks around the room, seeing nothing.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she says quietly after a little while, voicing his thoughts. ‘I feel as though you have abandoned me.’

‘I am sorry, ma’am,’ he says and he means it. He looks up to see Ernest standing with Albert and both of them watching.

‘You should dance with Albert tonight,’ he says quietly, watching carefully for her reaction. She falters momentarily, and for the first time that night, he knows it’s his support that keeps her steady.

Just how much he’d missed that feeling almost overwhelms him.

‘I do not want to dance with Albert,’ she whispers just loud enough for him to hear over the music, and it’s the emphasis on Albert’s name that tells him he’s failing. He failing her and the crown and he despises himself.

But her eyes drop to his throat and they’re wet and he knows she understands. She has accepted her fate.

When the dance finishes, he’s slow to let her go and he doesn’t particularly care who notices.

‘Dance with Albert,’ he pleads quietly. ‘Give him one more chance.’

She swallows, and eventually nods. He bows, and steps away, turning to look at Ernest, who has been watching him the whole time.

He nods, and Ernest nods in return. When he returns to his corner and turns, he sees Albert standing a few feet away from Victoria. She nods at something Albert says, and he takes her in his arms.

He’s sure this time to slip out unnoticed.

He doesn’t linger in the hall, the memory of that night, of her closeness - the light floral scent, the smell of champagne on her breath – none of them assaulting him as he stands there. He doesn’t work to squash the feeling of her small, warm hands on his chest.

When gets home that night, he orders the greenhouses closed by the end of the month.

 

***

 

She is standing on the steps of the palace, looking out at the gardens and lost in thought, when she hears him approaching. ‘I see, cousin, that the fashions have changed,’ he says, and she turns to Ernest, frowning in confusion. ‘It is obviously no longer the fashion for a woman to wear flowers in her hair,’ and she stares at him for a moment before turning away, her eyes hot.

 _He abandoned you_ , her mind whispers. _He doesn’t love you_.

‘I find fashion so fickle,’ she says after a moment, and her voice sounds strange to her own ears. ‘It is difficult to keep up.’

 _You cannot have him_ , her mind reminds her.

‘Yes, I must confess I am confused by it all,’ he agrees, looking out over the balcony. ‘But I think some fashions are timeless. They just fall away for a short while when something else takes their place.’

She turns to look at him, her mind spinning. Was he…?

‘I do not think the new fashions suit me,’ she says haltingly.

‘I think you look beautiful in whatever you choose, Cousin,’ Ernest says, his voice affectionate and she can’t help but smile ruefully. ‘But duty will dictate.’

‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘And we will listen.’ Her chest ached with the pain of it all; she thought she would never be free of it. Never be happy.

‘We should not always listen to duty,’ he declares suddenly. ‘We are people, not the machines of industry that just spin mindlessly from day to day.’

And she can’t really believe what she’s hearing; his words are fire in her ears.

‘Albert was right, wasn’t he? It was a fool’s errand,’ he asks quietly, and she swallows. He nods briefly before he grins a little wickedly. ‘But at least Uncle Leopold is the fool,’ he says, and she chokes out a laugh.

But, she thinks, she’d never meant to hurt anyone. ‘I am sorry,’ she says quietly, and he nods.

‘Albert will get over it.’

‘Please don’t tell him. Anything. Any of it,’ she says quickly, and he nods solemnly.

‘I promise I will not,’ he says, and she looks down, knowing he has mistaken her meaning.

‘It’s not…’ She stops and looks down, gathering her thoughts. ‘I think Albert will make a fine husband,’ she says eventually, looking Ernest in the eye.

He frowns a little, confused. ‘But…’ He stops, the realisation on his face, and she feels terrible, but this is how royal marriages work, she thinks. They’ve driven her to this, and they must suffer the consequences.

‘I must marry, Ernest,’ she says, a note of warning in her voice, and he eventually nods, solemn.

‘Yes, your majesty. You must.’ He looks up, his face mock-thoughtful. ‘Perhaps we could visit again, sometime soon. Perhaps in a year? You may then have time to consider what suits you best,’ he asks, and she smiles.

A year. If she cannot convince him in a year, cannot work it all out in a year…

‘A year sounds very reasonable,’ she says, and he grins at her.

‘I will work my magic,’ he says, holding his arm out, and she laughs.

 

***

  

‘The Princes return to Coburg tomorrow,’ she announces when he’s looking down at some paper, and he stops. _The Princes are leaving._

‘Oh?’ he says.

‘Ernest says that he and Albert have enjoyed their time here but their ship is repaired and they are eager to return home.’

He swallows before looking up at her, forcing himself to meet her eye. She looks quite pleased with herself, and he’s not entirely sure why. He doesn’t enjoy the sensation.

‘I see.’ He’s not going to ask outright; he has more dignity than that.

‘Can you believe they’ve been here for five months? It feels like an eternity,’ she laughs, and he is now really quite confused.

‘You seem quite pleased at their leaving,’ he says, and she turns to look at him, an incredulous smile on her face.

‘Of course I am! I am tired of constantly entertaining them. They’re exhausting,’ she says, laughing again.

He just blinks at her.

‘What?’ she asks, before pursing her lips. ‘I do not wish to marry just yet,’ she explains, her voice quieter. He drops his gaze and nods.

‘They return in a year,’ she adds, and he looks up. She seems pensive.

‘Perhaps the extra time is wise,’ he supplies. ‘Perhaps Albert will improve upon a second inspection,’ he adds, and she gives him a wry smile.

‘Perhaps he’ll grow up,’ she retorts, and she laughs when his lips twist but he says nothing.

When he gets home, he tells his butler that he has changed his mind about the greenhouses.

 

***

 

The morning Albert and Ernest leave he sends her two stems of white gladioli, and they are the first flowers he’s sent her in a month.

He knows the days have been hard, and this one possibly the hardest – not because she is sad to see the Princes go, but because of her Uncle’s tongue.

Leopold will not take disappointment well.

 

***

 

When she sees Emma walking down the hall with a small brown box, she stops.

Surely not. Not after all this time.

He has given her up, abandoned her.

She doesn’t move as Emma approaches her. Perhaps it’s a dream, she tells herself.

‘From Brocket Hall, ma’am,’ Emma says gently when she stops before the Queen. Victoria takes the box after a moment, staring at it.

‘The library, ma’am?’ Emma suggests, and Victoria nods dumbly.

When they’re seated, Victoria opens the box and sucks in a breath. The stems are long again, but each bright green stem only holds four or five flowers. The petals look like silk, and they curl at the edges. They’re so soft to her touch that she can barely feel them.

‘Beautiful,’ she hears Emma say beside her.

_Beautiful._

But then she remembers the day – what awaits her – and her eyes flick up to Emma’s. ‘I think it would be best if these were kept cold for now,’ Victoria says, and Emma nods knowingly.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

 

***

 

It’s not until later that afternoon that she notices Harriet wearing little white flowers in her hair.

‘Oh, those little flowers in your hair - they’re beautiful!’ she coos. ‘Wherever did you get them?’

Harriet’s eyes widen, and she drops her eyes. Victoria presses her lips together.

‘Did Ernest give you them?’ she asks, and Harriet’s wide eyes shoot to hers. ‘Don’t be shy, Harriet. I am well aware of Ernest’s…varying affections. Your secret is safe with me.’

Harriet blushes and Victoria smiles.

‘What kind of flowers are they? They’re so small and delicate.’

‘They’re snowdrops, ma’am,’ Harriet says, her smile wistful. ‘They’re for consolation.’

Victoria frowns. ‘For consolation? Whatever do you mean?’

Harriet looks confused. ‘Snowdrops, ma’am. They’re for consolation.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘ _Le Langage des Fleurs_ ,’ Harriet says. ‘The Language of Flowers. Flowers have meanings, ma’am. Snowdrops sent to another are consolation.’ She sighs again, but Victoria doesn’t hear it.

_Flowers have meanings._

‘Flowers…have meanings?’

‘Oh yes, ma’am. The book is becoming quite popular. There is a copy in the palace library; I took the liberty of ordering one for you, ma'am.’

 _Flowers have_ meanings _._

Surely…

‘Harriet, do you know where Lady Emma is?’

 

***

 

Lady Emma Portman, like all good royal subjects, is mildly afraid of the Queen. She’s also a little wary of the current Queen; she’s young and perhaps a little tempestuous, and could at times be even a little petulant.

So when she arrives at the palace to find Harriet waiting to tell her the Queen wants to see her and that she has _that_ look in her eye, she’s more than a little worried.

Victoria is pacing when she enters the room and curtseys.

‘Lady Emma, have you heard of a book titled _Le Langage des Fleurs_?’ she asks as she turns to face Emma, her eyes wide.

_Oh._

Oh no.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ she says, trying to keep her face as neutral as possible. She glances down at the table in front of the Queen to see a book open; the page has a very familiar flower on it.

Oh _no_.

Victoria stares at her, and Emma thinks she might be about to cry.

‘Gladioli mean strength,’ Victoria says, and Emma’s eyes close as she drops her head slightly.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Victoria doesn’t say anything for a moment, seemingly undecided as to her admirer’s fate.

‘Can I borrow your carriage, Lady Emma?’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ she agrees, and Victoria nods, appearing to convince herself more than anything else.

William isn’t going to know what hit him, Emma thinks resignedly. But it was his fault for playing this game; he knew the risks, and now he’d been caught. It was a silly game to play, but then he’d never been particularly wise in love.

Emma watches her for a moment before an idea springs to mind. ‘But can I suggest something else instead, ma’am?’

 

***

 

Melbourne sighs as he steps into the entranceway of Brocket Hall, handing his coat to the footman and yanking at his neck scarf. It had been a long day – and he hadn’t even had to see Leopold off. He wonders how it all went, and smiles – he anticipates a letter from her telling him all about it will be waiting for him in his study.

Their letters are his solace now; they’re not as frequent, he notices, and he tries to always leave a day before replying, unless he deems it more urgent, but they’re so full of _her_ that he cannot resist. Emma had said that she still needed him, and he didn’t disagree entirely. Through letters, she can still have at least some access to him, and he to her. It was a poor substitute, but he would take whatever he could get right now. Eventually, he would be left with nothing.

‘Lord Melbourne, this arrived for you this afternoon,’ he hears his butler tell him from behind, and he waves him off.

‘Put it in my study,’ he says.

‘It’s from the palace, my lord,’ the butler says and he turns to see a small brown box in the butler’s hands.

He feels his heart pounding in his chest.

‘From the palace?’ he asks without looking up, his mouth suddenly dry.

‘Yes, my lord. The instructions were to see that you received it personally.’

He sucks in a long breath.

Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she was just returning the favour, sending him flowers as well. She was innocent, his Queen, and busy. It was very unlikely she knew about a French book about flowers. And Emma wouldn’t do it to him. She wasn’t brave enough to meddle quite this much.

‘Thank you, Jacobs,’ he says as he takes the box from the butler.

He sits heavily in his chair, the box now sitting on his desk. He stares at it for a moment before cutting the twine and pulling the lid off.

Inside were three stems of the japonica flower; one white, one pink, and one red. Their petals were flawless, forming a perfect little cup for each flower.

His breath catches in his chest as he stares at the flowers in front of him and he has no doubt whatsoever now.

She knows.

He runs his hand over his face. She was smart, his Queen. And now…well, now, all was lost.

He would never, ever be able to convince her to marry Albert now.

‘My Lord,’ he hears Jacobs call from behind him.

‘Yes,’ he calls from where is head was now resting on his desk.

‘You have a visitor, my Lord.’

Of course. Of course she would come.

He stands and turns to see her standing in the doorway, and he lets out a small sigh of resignation.

He waits until Jacobs closes the door before he meets her eyes, but she speaks first.

‘Do you know that flowers have meanings, Lord M?’ she asks, taking several steps towards him, and he lets out a huff of a laugh. He cannot lie to her; her face tells him there’s no point. She knows.

‘Yes, ma’am. I do.’

She’s standing in front of him now, and his mind briefly reminds him of a conversation they’ve had here before. She looks no less unsure now, he realises as he looks at her face.

‘Carnations,’ she says, and swallows, staring at him and the words come out of his mouth before he can stop them.

‘Pride.’ He can see the end of this but he can’t help himself. There isn’t much point now, anyway.

‘Eremurus and Euphorbia.’

‘Endurance and persistence.’

‘White orchids,’ she says, and swallows, and he knows why she started with carnations. They’re playing this game again, he thinks. The one where she requests too much of him and he has to let her down. The one where he gets to break her heart with his own. The one where he takes whatever’s left of his own broken heart and sets it alight.

He takes a step towards her. ‘Innocence. Purity. Elegance. Reverence,’ he says.

‘Alstroemeria,’ she says, and he smiles a little, taking another step.

‘Devotion.’

‘Gardenias,’ she says, and her voice so, so soft and so scared, and he is standing so close to her now he could take her hand.

‘Secret love.’

‘Daffodils,’ she whispers, and he suddenly doesn’t want to say it. He can’t say it.

‘Unrequited love,’ he forces out in a whisper, holding her gaze, and he can see a tear slip down her cheek.

‘But it is not!’ she almost cries, and he shudders at the pain in her voice.

‘I know, ma'am,’ he replies softly. ‘But it must be.’

And she’s looking at him with those beautiful wide eyes that are glassy with tears and his own vision blurs.

‘I am sorry,’ he says, his voice soft. He reaches down to take her hand in his, but she pulls away, and he blinks, startled.

‘You once told me I needed a husband. That I would not be satisfied with companions,’ she says, her voice harsh with determination and anger and tears. ‘I believe you are right. I will marry. And I have made my choice.’ Her voice is determined in a way he’s not heard before. He believes her.

He doesn’t fear her choice. He would marry her this moment if he thought he could. If he thought he would be allowed. If he thought he were worthy of her.

But he feels the pain of her choice; a choice that was spurred on by his selfishness and weakness. He couldn’t resist sending her the flowers, their little secret, when she was being courted by another. He wouldn’t forgive himself for his part in her choice, not ever.

 

He cannot refuse her now, she thinks. Not now. Not when he’s declared his love for her so clearly and openly. Not now. Not after so long.

‘I have thought a lot about the conversation we had that day, outside here,’ she says, and she watches as his eyes study hers. She can see the pain on his face; it’s the same pain as that day.

He cannot refuse her now as he did that day.

He told her he was a rook, that he had mated for life. That he had no use for her heart. He had admitted to her later his _inclination_ in a room full of people; that he was the Leicester to her Elizabeth, but that she could not remain Elizabeth for long. That Leicester would not make her happy.

He had been right; she didn’t want a Leicester. And he would never be Leicester to her.

She was Victoria, and he was her William. Her Lord M.

She swallows. ‘I believe you wish you were a rook, and for some reason you have been long ashamed that you are not.’

He lets out a small huff of rueful amusement.

‘I am a rook, ma’am,’ he says quietly, almost a whisper. ‘And that is what most shames me.’

And when he looks up at her through his eyelashes, his eyes dark and glassy with unshed tears, the intensity of his gaze hits her and she gasps. _Oh_.

Oh.

 _She_ is his mate.

And he is ashamed of loving her.

 

He watches the tear slip silently down her face, and before he realises what he’s doing, he wipes it from her cheek. He feels her suck in a small breath, and her eyes close as his thumb touches her skin, and he pulls away quickly.

He should not touch her. He needs to send her away to marry someone else. Someone younger. Someone with a royal title. Someone the public and parliament and her family will be pleased with. He cannot let this continue. He looks away, at the floor beside them. It was a foolish dream, nothing more.

Oh, but she makes it so hard to push her away, and he is so tired.

And then she speaks and her voice is so small. ‘Am I not worth the fight?’ And he’s undone.

‘How can you think that?’ he asks, anguished. ‘You are worth everything,’ he says, his voice breaking. ‘I am the one not worth the fight.’

‘I do not agree,’ she replies, shaking her head.

‘You will be the only one, ma’am.’

‘I do not care.’

‘I do.’

‘How do you do it?’ she asks after a moment, and he’s confused. ‘How do you cling to duty when I know you love?’

‘It is because I love you,’ he replies, taking her hands in his, and this time, she doesn’t pull away. ‘I do not think you understand what will happen,’ he says. ‘The Privy Council will never approve your marriage to someone without a title.’

‘Then I will grant you a title.’ He lets out an amused breath at her imperiousness. ‘I have discretionary titles I can bestow upon whomever I wish,’ she says.

‘You should reserve those for important decisions,’ he half-chastises with smile, and she shakes her head.

‘What more important decision could I possibly make?’

He closes his eyes and drops his head. ‘They will not approve _me_ ,’ he says quietly.

‘They will, when they hear that they have no other option.’

He stares into her eyes, and wonders at the love – and hope – he finds there. ‘You are young; you deserve a husband who is closer to you in age.’

‘I deserve a husband who will love me,’ she counters, and he knows he’s not going to win. Not now, not when his defences are down and he cannot seem to summon them. She will not give up until she has her way. Not this time, he thinks.

He feels a tear roll down his cheek, and he blinks.

‘There will be talk. Some very unkind talk,’ he warns.

‘Let them talk. We will know the truth.’ He marvels at her naivety.

‘A monarch requires the support of her people,’ he says, and she smiles.

‘They will support me, especially once we produce an heir,’ she says, her smile soft, and his heart is suddenly racing.

This is all suddenly very, very real. He lets out a shuddering breath.

‘I must, as your Prime Minister, tell you that I do not think this a wise decision, your majesty,’ he says, and she bites her lip.

‘I, as your Queen, acknowledge your concern,’ she says softly, and he lifts his hand to gently touch her cheek again, propriety be damned for just a moment.

Her cheek almost burns where he touches it, and she has to remind herself to breathe. She closes her eyes, just _feeling_.

‘You are more beautiful than any flower I could send you,’ he whispers, and she’s so overcome with emotion she barely feels the tears slip from her eyes.

She opens her eyes when his hand moves from her face, only to see him gazing down at her, and her breath is gone all over again. He’s never looked at her like _that_ before, and she thinks knows why.

She can see him glance down at her mouth, and oh, she might die right here if he kisses her.

‘May I?’ he breathes, and everything in her screams _yes_ , but she’s not sure of her voice at all, so she settles for a shaky nod of her head.

He slowly, so slowly, leans down, his eyes not leaving hers and his thumb resting underneath her chin as he tilts her head up so gently. And then her eyes are closed and his lips are brushing hers and she is so overwhelmed and happy she could cry. He does it again, and again, each one pressing just a little more against her lips and lasting just a moment longer than the last, and she thinks she will burst with love for him. His kisses are soft and gentle and perfect. This is what love is, she thinks.

She feels him pull back eventually, and her eyes slowly open. She feels almost dazed, but she blinks a few times, trying to clear her mind.

It occurs to her that she still hasn’t officially _asked_ him.

‘Lord Melbourne,’ she says slowly. ‘I must ask you a question.’

 _Finally_ , she thinks.

 

***

 

After he finally accepts her, they’re finally engaged, he continues to send her gardenias and, at first, she doesn’t understand.

His love for her is no secret, nor is her love for him. They have declared their feelings to each other. She has asked him, and he has said yes.

It isn’t until they are going through her boxes the following week that she realises.

She’s standing, reading through a document that she doesn’t quite understand. There’s some wording she’s not sure of, and she asks him about it, pointing to the page. He comes to stand just behind her, as he normally perhaps would, but he’s closer as he leans over her shoulder to read the offending lines.

He’s so close as he inadvertently mumbles the lines in her ear as he reads them to himself that she suddenly cannot breathe. She turns her head ever so slightly so she can see his face; he’s concentrating, his brow furrowed a little, and all she wants to do is touch his cheek, his face.

It takes him a few moments to realise she’s watching him. But when he does, he turns so slightly and his face is just inches from hers. His eyes are dark, she notices – _are they always that dark?_ her mind wonders so very briefly – and they dart to her mouth, and she realises there is very little else in the world she wants at that moment than for him to kiss her.

And, as if reading her mind, he leans forward and very gently presses a soft kiss to her lips before slowly pulling back and stepping away slightly, the sweetest little smile she’s ever seen on his face.

She jumps when, only seconds later, Lehzen comes through the door to inform her that lunch is ready should she wish it.

When her eyes find his face across the room one Lehzen is gone, and she sees the guilt and self-reproach written all over him, she knows.

Their love is still as secret as it has ever been.

Her heart is racing at how close it had been, and when his eyes won’t meet hers, she knows he feels the weight of the fault on his shoulders, and she cannot bear it. It had been her mistake, her desire that had cornered him.

When she asks if he will join her for lunch, he agrees, looking up at her for the first time, and she conveys all her apologies in her eyes. She knows he has understood when he gives her the smallest of smiles.

As she passes him to walk through the doorway, she whispers to him.

‘Soon.’

 

***

 

The night before her next Privy Council, he sends her gardenias and orchids – which she is wise enough _not_ to wear in her hair that day.

He is fairly sure that most of the men on the Council would not notice what colour dress the Queen was wearing, let alone what type of flowers were in her hair, but Emma tells him that thanks to the Queen – to _him_ – it is now very fashionable to wear flowers in one’s hair, and he knows then it’s only a matter of time before _someone_ with ties to Parliament or Court figures it out.

And it’s at that Privy Council meeting where he finally realises what she meant when she said she would give them no other option; she does _exactly_ that.

His face is carefully schooled into a neutral expression for the meeting, and he knows it will take everything he has to maintain it.

If he has only almost perfected his after years of politics, what hope does she have, he wonders.

But he must have faith in her. If she wants this, she must learn to show her strength.

They had agreed that it would be unwise to declare her intent to marry him just yet, so close to the Princes’ visit. They would wait a few months. She hadn’t wanted to, predictably, but it hadn’t taken much to convince her, and he suspects she already knew. She had argued that the idea of a German Prince hadn’t thrilled everyone – especially _Leopold’s_ nephew – and so he, an English bridegroom, would seem excellent by comparison. He had laughed out loud at that – it was clever – and eventually advised her that there was going to be very little to recommend him no matter how hard she tried to compare him to anyone. Except, perhaps, her Uncle Cumberland, he’d joked, and she’d laughed.

When someone asks about the Princes’ visit, she calmly replies that she enjoyed the time with her cousins. There’s muttering and whispers and he catches the words ‘engagement’ and ‘heir’, and he can see her jaw clench as she grows frustrated with their gossiping. She is impatient, his Queen – until she isn’t. He watches her face as it shifts from irritated to regal; her chin high, her eyebrows slightly raised, her eyes strong.

‘Gentlemen, it should be made clear that I will only choose to marry for the very strongest love, and nothing will convince me otherwise. I understand that love like that is rare, but nevertheless, if I should not find it, then I will not marry.’

There’s a stunned silence that even he participates in; he hadn’t expected _that_.

But then he feels his mouth twist as he tries not to grin, and very deliberately shifts his gaze from her to the floor.

In hindsight, he should have expected it. Faced with the prospect of _no heir at all_ , he would look like a blessing sent from above.

She is playing the game. Their love has given her a challenge, and she is rising to it.

His heart almost bursts with pride when he realises later that she did not make eye contact with him once.

 

***

 

The day after the shooting, he sends her white azaleas.

She’s riding out and he’s sitting opposite her in her open-topped carriage. The crowds are large and excited to see her, and she’s waving. She can’t help smiling and laughing on occasion, he notices, and it makes his heart sing to see her so happy and so loved by her people.

He just happens to look to his right; something catches his eye, a glint of something up high, a man standing on something, pointing something-

He hears the shot as he dives over to her, covering her with his body. He screams at the guards, and with a painful jolt, the carriage takes off through the streets.

He leans back just slightly enough to push her down off the seat and onto the floor of the carriage. ‘Are you hurt?’ he shouts, and she stares at him, her eyes wide. He repeats his question, and she blinks and shakes her head. He looks up; they’re just pulling into the palace now, he can see. The guards are beside them, so close to the carriage. He lets out a breath when they pull into the palace courtyard and the gates shut behind them.

That’s when the pain hits him. His shoulder is on fire.

But he ignores it, pushes it aside, standing and stepping out of the carriage before helping her up. There are guards everywhere. He shouts orders, calling for her ladies, a doctor, for the Duke of Wellington and Robert Peel.

And then she is standing in front of him, eyes wide, and he puts his arm on her back, pushing her gently towards the door. ‘Inside, ma’am,’ he says quietly so only she can hear him and she nods.

He steers her into the Library – the closest room he can think of with a seat where she might lie down if she feels faint.

When they get there he gently guides her to the chair. ‘Sit,’ he tells her and she does.

He kneels in front of her. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asks again softly, and she looks in to his eyes. He looks her over as much as he can; he can’t see any injury. Her hair is falling out, but he thinks the arrangement at the back of her head probably softened the blows of his movements. But he’s worried that she’s saying nothing.

‘Ma’am,’ he says quietly, and she looks at him. He rests the backs of his fingers on her cheek briefly, and it seems to waken her slightly. She swallows.

‘I am not hurt,’ she says, her voice stronger than he’d expected.

The full reality of what had occurred hits him at that moment, and he takes in a quick breath. He could have lost her.

He suddenly feels every one of his years and he forces himself to stand.

‘Don’t leave,’ she begs as soon as he stands, and he shakes his head quickly.

‘I am not,’ he replies.

Lord Alfred comes racing in behind him. ‘Lady Emma and Lady Sutherland are in the palace and are coming, sir. Sir James has been sent for, as has the Duke and Sir Robert,’ he informs Melbourne, and Melbourne nods.

They both turn as they hears the Baroness enter the room with a shriek. She races over to the Queen, babbling in German and Melbourne moves out of the way, glad he’d had a moment to settle her before the barrage of women.

His shoulder is still burning, but it’s settling into more of a dull ache. He gingerly lifts his arm up to his chest to ease the pain. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Alfred, but Melbourne gets to him in time, shaking his head warningly at Alfred who closes his mouth on the shout Melbourne could see coming out.

‘You’re hurt, sir,’ Alfred says when Melbourne steers him across the room.

‘I am fine. The Queen needs attending to first,’ he says, glaring warningly at Alfred, who purses his lips, but eventually nods before leaving.

He hears the Duchess before he sees her, and the noise propels him further away from the Queen.

She enters the room with a cry, and pulls her daughter close.

‘Baroness,’ Melbourne says after a moment, and she looks at him, her eyes wide and dazed. ‘I think perhaps the Queen may wish for some tea,’ he suggests gently, and the Baroness looks at him for a moment before nodding and disappearing out a door.

When Melbourne looks back at the Queen, he’s pleased to see that she is allowing her mother to comfort her.

He realises with a jolt that the back of his shirt feels wet.

It doesn’t take long for Emma and Harriet to appear, Harriet in tears, and both encouraging the Queen to drink tea and lie down.

He’s relieved when Sir James arrives and requests a private audience with the queen so he can examine his patient thoroughly.

But then her eyes shoot to his and shakes his head infinitesimally and gives her a small smile. She’s upset, he can tell, but she allows them to lead her away.

He sits heavily on the wooden chair once she leaves, and waits for the Duke and Sir Robert. He is dully aware that his shoulder is still hurting, but he has more important things to attend to. His shoulder can wait.

The Duke and Sir Robert arrive moments after the Queen leaves, and Melbourne forces himself to stand. He tells them all he knows, and they fire questions at him. The Queen appears unharmed. Yes, he saw something, but he acted more on instinct than anything. Yes, the guard are out searching now. No, he doesn’t know why today of all days.

The Duke barks orders at guards who come and go, and Peel mutters about calling an urgent meeting of Parliament.

Melbourne blinks repeatedly against the tiredness that threatens to overwhelm him; his shoulder is so, so sore. He just wants to sit.

The Duke notices first. ‘Melbourne, why…’ he trails off and Melbourne is confused. The Duke’s eyes widen and, he grabs Melbourne and spins him around.

‘Good god, Melbourne,’ he exclaims. ‘Get the doctor here, now,’ he says to Peel, and Melbourne sighs.

‘It’s nothing. It’s just a graze,’ Melbourne tries to explain and the Duke looks at him, before crossing the room to close the door.

‘You forget who you’re speaking to, Melbourne,’ the Duke says gruffly. ‘Sit,’ he commands, and Melbourne is more than happy to oblige, sitting on the edge of the chair. He knows why his shirt is wet, and doesn’t want to damage any of the palace furniture. He’s starting to feel quite ill now; his arm is heavy where he’s been holding it to his stomach. He’s vaguely aware of the Duke barking orders at Lord Alfred who races from the room only to return with one of the servant girls who has a bowl with some towels.

‘I am fine,’ he protests. ‘I will see to my injury at Dover House.’

‘You won’t make it to Dover House at this rate,’ the Duke tells him, and he’s not sure the Duke is entirely wrong. He feels cold and clammy.

Sir James enters and the Duke directs him to Melbourne’s shoulder.

‘The Queen,’ he asks, his voice trailing off. He’s not really sure what he’s asking.

‘The Queen is unharmed and is resting,’ Sir James tells him from his back. ‘You’re going to have to take your jacket off, Melbourne,’ he says, and that sounds like a terrible thought, but he does it anyway.

The pain is excruciating. His jacket is saturated, from blood or sweat he’s not sure, but when he looks down at his shirt, he can see the bloom of red curling around his middle.

Maybe it was worse than he’d thought.

He slowly unbuttons his shirt and he feels Sir James peel it off his shoulder.

‘Are you sure there was only one shot?’ the Duke asks him after a moment.

His mind replays the scene; the shot, the silence before the screams started. He wouldn’t have heard much over the screams and chaos of the crowds. ‘No,’ Melbourne admits. ‘There may have been more.’

‘Well, I’m now telling you there were more,’ the Duke says. ‘You’ve been shot twice.’

Melbourne forces himself to sit still, battling the waves of nausea and panic. Two shots. They’d hit him twice. Which means they would have hit her twice.

He swallows hard against the thought.

And then Sir James touches the raw skin of his shoulder and he has to fight the wave of nausea that accompanies the pain and threatens to overwhelm him. He will _not_ be sick on the floor of Buckingham Palace library.

‘You’re lucky, sir,’ Sir James says. ‘It would appear that the bullets have not lodged themselves in your skin; they appear to have hit at an angle and have simply gouged out some of the flesh.’ Sir James sighs. ‘You are quite lucky, Lord Melbourne. These will bleed, as you can see, but they should heal over time.’

Melbourne’s head is swimming. She could have been shot. She could be--

And he bites down hard on that last thought. He will not go down that path now. He knows where that leads, and he needs his wits about him now. She needs him, he tells himself, and the thought of her gives him the ability to focus.

Sir James is bandaging his shoulder when a thought occurs to him.

‘I do not think it wise to inform the Queen just at the moment,’ he says, choosing his words carefully. ‘It will not calm her mind to hear there have been injuries.’

The Duke looks at him carefully. ‘No. There is no benefit in the Queen finding out until she is fully rested and well,’ he agrees, and Melbourne is grateful.

He doesn’t want to think of what she’ll do when she finds out.

‘Perhaps it would be best if one of her ladies, Lady Emma Portman maybe, were to tell her tomorrow,’ he suggests again, and the Duke nods.

‘Lady Portman is sensible,’ he agrees.

The Baroness appears moments later despite the closed doors and the guards, her eyes widening and mouth open at the display; the bloodied clothes and rags, and Lord Melbourne – the Prime Minister – with no shirt on, his shoulder now wrapped in bandages.

He is grateful when the Duke steps in and tells her of their plans in a tone that brooks no disagreement. He’s even more grateful when a serving boy arrives with a clean shirt and jacket for him to wear home. 

When stumbles into his study late the next morning, tired from a night of pain and little comfortable sleep, he smiles at the red and pink carnations sitting in the box on his desk.

 

***

 

He doesn’t make it to the palace that day, satisfied that his flowers have done the talking for him, and buoyed by her own in return. But she struggles to hide the tears when he arrives with the dispatches the following morning. He is grateful when they are left alone to their work after a few minutes of pleasantries; he wasn’t sure she would last that long.

When she bursts into tears just inches away from him moments after the door is closed behind them, he cannot help but put his arm around her and pull her close to his chest. She goes willingly, sobbing, and his heart is so full of love for her. He wants to wrap her up, keep her safe. He will have to settle for one arm; his shoulder is too sore to move his other at the moment. He rests his cheek gently on the top of her head, before dropping a soft kiss there.

‘Why did you not tell me?’ she says quietly after she’d calmed herself a little. He loves that she doesn’t try to pull away from him, but he knows they cannot stay like this for long. He moves his arm from where it rests on her back, and she reluctantly steps away.

‘Your safety is of paramount importance, ma’am. Mine comes quite a far second to that, ma’am,’ he explains, and she frowns. 

‘But I was not injured,’ she replies.

‘I was not sure, ma’am,’ he explains gently. ‘Besides, I am fine. Just a few cuts,’ he says lightly, and she frowns even harder.

‘Lehzen said your shirt and jacket were soaked in blood!’ _Excellent_ , he thinks as he resists the urge to roll his eyes.

‘Some cuts bleed more than others, ma’am.’

‘Is it very sore?’ she asks, the worry still etched on her face.

‘Yes,’ he admits. ‘But only when I move it.’ She’s still frowning and he smiles at his sweet, sweet Queen. ‘I am so thankful you were not injured.’

She isn’t satisfied, he can tell, but he’s not going to tell her how he had to be assisted to his carriage; how he’d lain on his side for the journey home, watched by one of the Palace boys who was under strict instructions to fetch Sir James if he lost consciousness. How he doesn’t really remember how he got into bed, only that he woke lying on his stomach in his bed when it was barely light with a sore neck and a dry throat.

‘You saved my life,’ she says, her voice soft and wondrous, and he’d live the pain of being shot over if she would look at him like _that_ again.

‘It is my duty, ma’am,’ he replies quietly, before reaching for her hand and kissing her palm. 

There is a blessing in disguise to be found; when it’s made clear at the Parliament that Cumberland is suspected by the Duke’s men of being behind it, the rage of the King of Hannover is palpable.

He is grateful, for once, for the cartoons in the paper that rage against Cumberland and laud him as a hero.

 

***

 

He sends her gardenias the day he officially resigns his position as Prime Minister.

He has spent the previous weeks dropping hints, warning those around him that he cannot last forever. That he’s old, and wants a quieter life.

It’s the day before she makes her announcement to the Privy Council, and he can’t help but enjoy some of the praise heaped upon him. He knows it will all turn so quickly.

She’s wearing his flowers in her hair when he arrives at the Palace that evening for dinner.

 

***

 

The day their engagement is officially announced, he sends her tulips – one red and one pink.

She has been strong, his Queen. The Privy Council, unsurprisingly, had been in an uproar at her announcement that she intends to marry _Lord Melbourne_. A _Viscount_.

But she’d been right; the council, when faced with the choice of Cumberland as their possible future king and Melbourne as the father of the heir, had chosen the latter.

Not without some trouble.

And he’d been right about how quickly they would turn on him, and turn on him in Parliament the Tories did. His own party was perhaps more in wonderment at the turn of events to do anything other than defend their hero, their self-sacrificing former Prime Minister, the man who had allowed himself to be shot – twice – to defend their Queen.

They were all questioning his motives now.

He did not care for himself; he had withstood it all before. He knew people spoke of what they did not understand, what they did not know, and what they were jealous of.

He just hated that they were speaking ill of her at the same time.

When he arrives at her summons late that afternoon, she has pinned the pink tulip to the front of her gown, and his heart is full.

 

***

 

She throws a ball some weeks later, and he sends her a small bunch of viscaria.

She wakes that morning to hear the Baroness sighing. ‘Good morning, Lehzen,’ she says, and the Baroness turns to greet her.

‘More flowers from Brockett Hall, your majesty,’ she says, and Victoria is amused to see the Baroness is less than pleased. She has not said anything, but Victoria knows she thinks Melbourne has seduced her somehow, used his masculine wiles to capture her heart, but she appears unable to reconcile that with his selfless act in nearly dying to protect her, so she just generally seems displeased. Occasionally Victoria feels a longing to explain, but it doesn’t last. She hasn’t needed Lehzen for a while now, and the Baroness will eventually see for herself how wonderful her Lord M really is.

She jumps out of bed to look at the new blooms that are gracing her dresser. As with some of the flowers he sent her, she doesn’t recognise the small purple and pink flowers, the stems of which seem to stick to her fingers when she picks them up.

Later she calls Emma back and shows her a page in the book. ‘These arrived for me this morning,’ she says, and giggles when Emma gasps.

‘William,’ she mutters, and Victoria laughs even more. ‘Well. He is getting bolder as your wedding day approaches, isn’t he?’ she says, and Victoria’s smile is shy but pleased, and Emma cannot help but think that this is good for her. To be _wooed_ , to be loved by someone who knows what it is to love. Someone who will cherish her.

 

***

 

He’s surprised at how visceral his reaction is to the sight of his flowers in her hair, even now. It has been over a year now since she first wore them, and whilst his reaction has shifted very slightly, it’s still as powerful as ever.

Coupled with the bright smile she gives him when she arrives in the room, he has to swallow.

She is so, so beautiful, his Queen. His beautiful girl.

Unsurprisingly, no one objects to his requesting the first dances with her.

 

***

 

In the weeks before the wedding, when she’s fighting with everyone and everything except him, she sends him a spider flower, and he can’t help but laugh.

‘They tell me I cannot marry a Viscount, and then refuse to grant you another title,’ she complains when he arrives the next morning. He takes her hand and kisses her palm, and he can’t help but smile a little when she bites her lip.

‘I am not surprised,’ he says. He knew this would be difficult; he has deliberately excused himself from Parliament for the duration of their engagement. He has no desire to hear the accusations and demands that would be thrown back and forth, and he certainly is not going to vote on his own title. He does not want one, and thinks it unwise of her to push, but he cannot discuss this with her any more than he already has. He had to work to convince her that he should not be given the title of Prince Consort, eventually winning when he painted a graphic picture of exactly what they would say about him when Peel took _that_ to Parliament. She had settled on Duke, and he’d had to concede. She is nothing if not determined, his Queen.

She turns to him, a little frown on her face, and he smiles at her, still amused at her gift. ‘But we cannot elope,’ he reminds her, and she lets out a huff at his amused smile, before her own face cracks.

They eventually relent and make him a Duke, more for their own pride than anything else, he knows. The Queen of England could not possibly marry a _Viscount_.

 

***

 

The night before their wedding, he sends her two of the darkest red roses he can find, with a sprig of baby’s breath.

They come in the evening, long after he’s left, in a box tied with a string and strict instructions that the Queen alone is to open the box.

She opens them in her room later that night and gasps.

She knows what dark red roses mean – she’s been reading herself, when she can – and something curls low in her stomach. She’s becoming quite familiar with the sensation. Occasionally he’ll glance at her, and she’s captured by the look in his eyes that she can only describe as _heated_. But then he looks away, and she is left floundering. Occasionally he’ll do or say something, and she’ll feel it, that curl, and she has to touch him. She settles usually for a hand on his arm – they are endlessly chaperoned, after all – but she knows her gaze matches his.

He _loves_ her.

 

***

 

When Skerret pulls out a brown box filled with orange blossoms the next morning and tells her they arrived early from Brocket Hall, she’s overwhelmed by her love for him.

The day dawns bright and mostly clear, and she is a bundle of nerves and happiness. It all passes so quickly, but she will never forget the look on his face at the sight of her at the altar with his flowers in her hair. She felt the same tears well in her eyes that she could see in his.

 

***

 

When she’s exhausted and aching more than she thought humanly possible a little more than a year after their wedding, he brings her orange blossoms again.

She had hated being with child; all the uncertainty and emotion and discomfort. But now it was over, and she will forever treasure the sight of her husband cradling their baby boy in his arms. He sits on the bed next to her and gently passes her their sleeping son, and her heart is so full. He presses soft kisses to her hair, whispering how proud he is of her, how happy he is, how much he loves them both.

She watches the orange blossoms slowly fade over the following days on her dresser before Skerret, she assumes, removes them, but she doesn’t mind. They’re hers and her little boy’s and she will enjoy them as long as she is confined to her bed.

He replaces them the same day.

 

***

 

On their tenth wedding anniversary, she arrives in her rooms to find a brown box on her dresser, and she smiles in wonderment. There haven’t been boxes in a long time; now that he lives at the palace, he usually just leaves the blossoms on her dresser, or – her favourite – pushes them gently into her hair himself when they’re walking through the gardens.

She sits on her chair and pulls the lid off to find a sprig of white orchids, and she can’t help laughing.

 

***

 

When the box appears on her dresser the evening after the funeral, she sobs into her pillows until she has no tears left and the raw pain in her chest subsides to a dull ache.

Eight children and twenty-four years and she’d barely gone a week without his flowers.

He’d always told her that his love for her was never-ending.

**Author's Note:**

> Orchids – innocence, purity, elegance and reverence  
> Gardenias – secret or untold love; devotion, but unable to say it with words  
> Japonica/Camellia – sincere love, adorable (combine pink and red for romantic love, adding white means luck)  
> Light red Carnation – I’m proud of you  
> Red Roses & Baby's Breath – intense romantic love  
> Viscaria – an invitation to dance; also a symbol of flirting and attraction  
> Eremurus and Euphorbia – Endurance and persistence  
> Tulips - the first declaration of love  
> Alstroemeria – devotion  
> Daffodils – unrequited love  
> Chrysanthemum – red and white together mean true love  
> Gladioli/Gladiolus – strength of character, honour, conviction, integrity  
> Snow Drop – consolation  
> Orange Blossoms – for weddings (considered the ultimate show of love)  
> Bluebell – everlasting love  
> Spider Flower - invitation to elope  
> White Azalea – passion; desire for a person to take care of themselves very carefully
> 
> This is the paragraph from my previous story that inspired this one:
> 
>  
> 
> _It had been the flowers. He hadn’t been able to sacrifice those, the memory of her with his flowers at her breast and in her hair had long sustained his heart – and they’d been his undoing. She was smart, his beautiful wife. She had eventually seen into his heart; she’d challenged him on his secret, worn him down. Caught him unguarded, late one evening._
> 
>  
> 
> _He had loved her all along._


End file.
